Blitzing Emily

by Julie Brannagh

  Brandon reached out to shake both their hands. “Thank you so much. I’d like to send you some autographed Sharks merchandise as a thank-you as well.”

  The officers interrupted each other.

  “We can’t accept that.”

  “Thank you for the offer, but no.”

  Brandon gave them a nod. “I’ll see what else I can come up with that won’t get you in trouble with the chief. It was great to meet you. Please tell your colleagues thank you from me, too. C’mon, sugar. We gotta go.” He picked up his suitcase and Emily’s backpack in one big hand and wrapped an arm around her waist.

  “I’m not supposed to be here,” Emily protested to Brandon, but he wouldn’t let go of her. He pulled her down the hallway.

  “Just let me find someone.”

  He held the door open for Emily, and she walked into the locker room. She expected piles of dirty laundry, awful smells and half-naked guys wandering around. It was surprisingly luxurious, and at least everyone was dressed. It took a couple of minutes, but sixty pairs of eyes focused on Brandon. They didn’t look happy. In fact, “angry” was the word she’d use.

  Damian stood. “I was about to put your ass on the back of a milk carton, dawg.” He crossed the room with a hand extended to Brandon. They shook hands, hugged each other, and Damian kissed her cheek. “Hello, love.” He frowned. “Why are you here?”

  “Take your lips off my woman,” Brandon growled, but he didn’t object when Damian gave her a hug, too.

  The coach called out, “Nice to see you could make it, McKenna. Hope you brought your goddamn checkbook.” He smiled at Emily. “Hello, Miss Hamilton. I’m fining McKenna an additional ten thousand dollars for bringing you into the locker room before a game. Of course, it’s a pleasure to see you.” He crossed the room to them, and Emily reached up to kiss his cheek.

  “A kiss for luck,” she explained.

  “We’ll catch up after the game,” he assured her. “You’re going to have to leave.”

  “Bye, Coach. I know you’ll win.”

  “I’ve always liked you,” the coach said.

  She tugged on the coach’s jacket. “Maybe the fine could go to Lake Washington High School’s music program.”

  He laughed in response.

  A team employee stepped out of the crowd and took her arm. “Please come with me.”

  “Hang on,” Brandon said to Emily. He hurried to his locker. He returned with a game jersey in his hands, which he draped over Emily’s head. “Perfect.”

  “You might need this later.”

  “Forget it. You gotta go, sugar.”

  He turned back to the team, but not before she got a quick kiss and an, “I’ll see you later.” The kiss brought on a cacophony of whistles and applause.

  Emily heard Greg shout, “Get a room!” He was suited up for the game. The team must have put him on the roster today.

  “Win,” she told Brandon.

  “You bet your ass.” He clapped his hands loudly. “So, ladies, I understand there’s a game this afternoon. Who’s going to help me tape up?”

  Emily could still hear the whistles, shouts, and stomping feet from inside the locker room as she and the Sharks employee hurried through the hallway outside.

  She walked into the Sharks’ owner’s suite a few minutes later. There weren’t many women present. The other wives and girlfriends must have been scattered all over the stadium. The media lurking around the Rose Bowl snapped photos of her in Brandon’s jersey. His ring was still in her jeans pocket. She rubbed her fingers over it as she paced in front of the suite’s windows, waiting for the kickoff.

  For someone who appeared in front of a couple thousand quiet, formally dressed people to do her job, it was shocking to experience 100,000 people screaming their heads off at Brandon’s workplace. There seemed to be some kind of elaborate pre-game procedure, too. The teams were introduced as a unit, and emerged from the tunnel. Kelly Clarkson sang “America the Beautiful.” The team captains walked to midfield holding hands, introductions of players and dignitaries present at mid-field were made, and a coin toss determined who would defend each goal. Seconds afterward, Aretha Franklin’s voice filled the stadium as she sang the national anthem. Fighter jets roared overhead only moments after the last note.

  The Sharks’ owner, John Campbell, milled around the suite with his guests. After a recent split with his much-younger second wife, he was considered one of Seattle’s most eligible bachelors. He was entertaining what appeared to be a couple of lingerie models today. Maybe they knew Anastasia. He also hosted some former Sharks players. Brandon could have told her who they were, but he was a little busy at the moment.

  John broke away from his guests long enough to greet her.

  “Emily, it’s good to see you. Weren’t you supposed to be singing at the Met today?”

  “Well, I was.” She smiled up at him. “I had to see this.”

  “Help yourself to something to eat or drink.” He nodded in the direction of the huge buffet.

  “Thank you so much for offering, but I think I’ll wait awhile.”

  He squeezed her shoulder, and said, “If you need anything, let me know. Excuse me for a moment.”

  Emily grabbed a soda and sat down. She waited nervously for the game to finally start. She’d never felt this way before, either. A perma-knot formed in the pit of her stomach, and she wanted to jump out of her own skin. She hoped he would play well. Even more, she wished the experience would be everything he’d dreamed of over the years. Her nerves were probably nothing compared to his.

  Brandon ran up and down the sidelines before the first play with the Sharks defense. He raised his arms up in the air, asking the fans for noise. She saw his huge smile on the video screen, and he pointed toward the suite. She knew he couldn’t see her, but she got to her feet and blew him a kiss anyway.

  The fans cooperated, roaring loud enough to make the ground shake. The Sharks faithful were here today, too. The game began, with an even louder roar from the crowd. Oddly enough, Brandon was on the sidelines. The coach must have still been mad.

  “Why are you benching him?” she muttered to herself. “Are you nuts?”

  Emily got up out of her chair, found a quiet corner, and paced as she watched the game. The first quarter passed rapidly. After all, New England’s offense spent most of it on the field.

  The second quarter came, and Brandon still wasn’t in the game. The sports commentators on the televisions all over the suite seemed horrified that Brandon wasn’t playing.

  “We’re a little surprised to note that the Sharks’ All-Universe defensive end and the centerpiece of their defensive line, Brandon McKenna, is still riding the pine in the second quarter,” one announcer said. “His team’s getting beat, and we have no information about a possible injury that would prevent him from playing.”

  “He’s worked his entire career for this,” said another. “I understand that the Sharks wanted to teach him a lesson, but is it worth a potential Super Bowl loss to do it?”

  The first one took up the story again. “We have an unconfirmed report that McKenna told Coach Olsen he wanted to skip the game to attend his ex-fiancée Emily Hamilton’s debut with the Metropolitan Opera this afternoon. According to the same source, Miss Hamilton is at today’s game, so something happened. We’re working on getting more information.”

  A former player on the announcing team piped up. “Hey, I’ve played with McKenna, and that’s a damn lie. There is nothing more important to him than football. He’s not going to do stupid shit like that on the eve of the Super Bowl.”

  Despite her worry and nervousness, Emily had to laugh. The “bleep” came about five seconds too late. Little did the guy know that Brandon had done “stupid shit like that” only hours ago.

  “We’ll get more of the story as it’s available,” said the first announcer. “In the meantime, McKenna’s on the sidelines, he hasn’t played a down yet, and the Sharks are being badly beaten at the
line. Their pass rush is non-existent as well.”

  Emily saw Brandon look up toward the suite again. All around him was the controlled chaos that was the Super Bowl, and she wondered what he might be thinking. She got to her feet and moved to the window. She blew him another kiss. To her surprise, he pantomimed catching the kiss in his fingers. She saw a video camera out of the corner of her eye, but she couldn’t take her eyes off of him. Despite a getting-crowded suite, nobody else was there. She folded her hands under her chin.

  “God, please let him play,” she murmured. “Please.”

  Emily turned to see John Campbell standing next to her. “He’s going to play, isn’t he?” she asked him.

  “It’s up to the coach, Miss Hamilton.”

  She let out a heavy sigh. “It’s not going well.”

  “You’re right. It’s not.”

  John picked up the telephone next to the seating area and asked to be connected with the coaches’ booth above the field. He must have been patched into the coach’s headset on the field.

  “We’re not going to lose this goddamn game,” John said. “They’re driving on our 20, and you’re punishing the entire team over something one guy did? Put McKenna in.” He listened for a few moments. “Just do it. I’ll handle it later.” He hung up, turned to face Emily, and said, “You’re about to get your wish. In the meantime, let’s have a drink. What would you like?”

  “I’ll have what you’re having.” Hopefully he wasn’t drinking Jagermeister.

  He beckoned the server. “Two scotch and waters, please.”

  Their drinks arrived unbelievably fast, along with a variety of snacks—one more perk of owning a pro football team. John gestured to the seats. “After you, Miss Hamilton.”

  Down on the field, the coach made his way over to Brandon. Moments later, Brandon put on his helmet and ran onto the field. The ovation was deafening.

  Emily threw her arms around John. “Thank you.” To her surprise, he looked a bit embarrassed and gave her a shy grin.

  “Oh, no, thank you. He’s going to win me a Super Bowl.”

  John laughed, and clinked glasses with Emily. She wasn’t typically a Scotch drinker, but she sipped. It wasn’t bad. Then again, they weren’t drinking the cheap stuff, either.

  Brandon played like a man possessed. He’d once told Emily that if he was ever actually in the Super Bowl, he feared he’d freeze. It had been his goal for so long. He visualized running onto that field so many times that it must have been like home to him. He had two sacks before halftime. He was menacing, and he was all over the Minutemen’s quarterback. If he didn’t make the sack himself, he helped his teammates by knocking offensive linemen out of the way, or getting his arms up to deflect New England’s passes. He rallied a team that had spent most of the first half letting New England run all over them. The offense was still having some trouble, but the defense was making opportunities.

  They’d destroyed New England’s ability to run the ball. The Sharks secondary managed to intercept the New England quarterback’s passes three times, too. The TV commentators were predicting this could end up being Brandon’s greatest game as a pro. The others in the owner’s suite were cautiously optimistic, wondering if the Sharks could win their first Super Bowl.

  Just before the halftime show came on the field, the network commentators broadcast the footage taken by the camera guy Emily saw earlier from the corner of her eye—a few seconds of her blowing Brandon a kiss. Another photographer had filmed Brandon pretending to catch it, and winking as he did so.

  “Brandon McKenna’s catching everything that’s coming his way today,” the commentator said.

  Shane Falcon, former Super Bowl-winning quarterback of the Pittsburgh Steelers and part of the announcing team, responded, “Hey, guys, there isn’t a man alive who doesn’t understand what’s happening here. He’s trying to impress the lady in his life, and he’s doing a damn fine job.”

  One of Seattle’s former running backs was providing color commentary this afternoon.

  “Maybe she should always be on the sidelines.”

  “Hell, yeah. Let’s hope there’s more where that came from, Seattle fans.”

  At halftime, while Beyonce and Jay-Z’s music echoed through the stadium, Emily got up to stretch her legs. Maybe she should go out and walk in the corridor. A little exercise might settle her world-class case of nerves.

  The moment she ventured out of the suite, she was surrounded by cameras and reporters. Don, a reporter Emily recognized from The Seattle Times, led the group.

  “Don, do we have to do this now?” she pleaded. “I’m a mess.”

  He grinned at her. “A couple of questions, okay?”

  She heard another producer count “three, two, one,” the bright lights of television cameras shone in her face, and a female reporter Emily hadn’t met before said, “Surprisingly enough, there are some things more important than the Super Bowl. The Sharks’ Brandon McKenna announced three weeks ago that he would retire from the NFL after today’s game. He’s been working toward this goal over his thirteen-year career. McKenna was reportedly so unhappy about missing his ex-fiancée Emily Hamilton’s debut at the Metropolitan Opera today he considered leaving the team and flying to New York to see it. Emily was scheduled to sing the role of Musette in La Boheme this afternoon. Instead, she’s here in Miami. Emily, what made you decide to come to the game?”

  “I had to be here. It’s the biggest game of Brandon’s life.”

  “Are you worried about the effect on your own career?”

  “Yes. I am.” The realization sat in her stomach like a lump of lead, cold and heavy. She’d tossed away years of hard work today. Emily chewed on her lower lip. “I . . . I just had to come, though.”

  “Does this mean you’re back together?” another reporter asked.

  “No comment.” She fingered the ring in her pocket.

  Don’s smile got even broader. “Is there anything you’d like to say to Brandon, Emily?”

  Emily looked into the camera. She wanted to tell him again that she loved him. She wanted to tell him she couldn’t live without him. She wanted to wake up every morning and go to sleep every night in his arms. She wanted his babies. Even more than that, she wanted his heart.

  That wasn’t what she said, though.

  “I’m so proud of you, baby,” she said. “Win.”

  “Back to you, guys,” the female reporter said, and then to her: “Thanks, Emily. Catch you on the field after the game.”

  The media hurried away, and Emily walked back into the suite.

  The second half started with a vengeance. The Sharks would make a good run or get better field position, then the Minutemen’s defense would force a fumble, or Seattle couldn’t convert third down. The defense did their part. Damian picked off a pass and ran it into the end zone to score. The Minutemen’s quarterback spent a lot of time sitting on the turf as Brandon and his teammates sacked him repeatedly. The Sharks fans were doing their best to pump the team up, but as the minutes ticked on, hope was fading fast. Seattle was still down by six, and Emily folded her hands under her chin. They couldn’t get this far to lose the game.

  Emily rubbed her fingers over her lips. Thirty seconds left on the clock. The Sharks were driving on their forty-five when disaster struck. The Minutemen’s cornerback intercepted a pass from Tom, the Sharks’ quarterback. She heard the cries of disbelief in the suite; she went cold inside. He continued to run, only to be shoved out of bounds by Tom. Tears blurred her eyes.

  After listening to Brandon’s football tutorials, she knew what was going to happen. The Minutemen would line up for a play in what he called the “V” formation, protecting the ball at all costs. They would run out the thirty seconds left on the clock by snapping the ball from center twice. The game would be over, without any chance for the Sharks to recover the ball in time. The Sharks would lose, and Brandon had played his entire career to lose the biggest game of it.

  All the Min
utemen’s quarterback had to do was take a knee when the ball was snapped from center. The teams trotted back onto the field. Emily couldn’t see exactly what happened on the snap, but she saw what happened next. The ball bounced off the quarterback’s foot, and flew into the air. Time stood still as bodies crashed into each other, but the ball landed in a pair of hands wearing electric blue gloves.

  Brandon tucked the ball into his arm, and took off for the end zone.

  “Go!” Emily called out, jumping up and down. “Go, baby!”

  The crowd was on its feet, cheering him on. The suite was a cacophony of shouting. All she could see was Brandon, and he was still running. He’d made it past the secondary, he was feet from the end zone, and she was still shouting, “Run!”

  He couldn’t hear her over the noise of 100,000 people. Maybe he’d feel it. One of New England’s players threw himself toward Brandon. He grasped Brandon’s ankle, and Brandon stumbled. He took a few more steps. The guy hung on. It seemed like it took forever, but it was only seconds in reality. Brandon fell, but he landed in the end zone. The official held his arms straight up in the air—touchdown.

  The crowd went wild. Emily put both palms on the windows of the suite. The noise from the stadium concussed against them like a cannon firing. As quickly as the noise started, though, it stopped.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus,” she heard John say.

  Nobody moved. A flutter of yellow fabric hit the turf. Flag. The crowd was silent. All Emily could hear was the television commentators.

  “Wait. Let’s see what it is. There’s no preliminary indication of a penalty, and there’ll be a booth review . . .”

  John stood up from his seat, walked over to the phone, and punched in a few numbers. He listened intently to whoever was on the other end.

  Brandon was on his feet. He still held the ball. The coach signaled for a time out; the defensive players clustered around him in a knot. Everyone waited. Emily buried her face in her hands. If the waiting was awful, this was worse. She had no idea what she would say to him if the penalty meant the score was disallowed.